Once Upon a Time
by KBates
Summary: Once upon a time, a mythical King came across a defiant mortal. What happens when a dark King decides to take the object of his obsession? How long does it take for the defiant mortal to break? J and S. One shot. Dark fairytale.


_Disclaimer: I don't own Labyrinth or associated characters._

 **AN** : woot! I'm back from my trip. Was fun, but now it's back to the gym.

 **Important Q** : I don't use the word vagina (at least not when characters are having sex) as it feels too genealogical [ETA: lmao, that's not the word I meant to use, but I'll put it there b/c it looks ridiculous - meant to be gynaecological - thanks soleiado - wouldn't have noticed it otherwise]. Pussy feels frat boy-ish. So I stick with cunt—a word I seldom use RL. So…what's a good, sexy, non-giggle worthy word for vagina, peeps? Help a writer out.

 **Summary** : Once upon a time, a mythical King came across a defiant mortal. What happens when a dark King decides to take the object of his obsession? How long does it take for the defiant mortal to break? J and S. One shot. Dark fairytale.

* * *

 **Once Upon a Time**

Once upon a time, a mythical King happened to glance at a mortal child. That one glance was all it took—he spent years working on a trap. A trap that would ensure she remained his possession for all eternity. But that never came to be.

She solved his puzzle, beat his obstacles, and refused to be entrapped. The King left her alone for some time—as an immortal creature, he had all the time in the world. He'd played his hand too fast the first time around, so this time… _this time_ he wouldn't make the same mistake. There would be no games or puzzles.

 _This time_ , he decided to take what he wanted, what he felt was already his.

This is not a love story—there's nothing romantic about it. This is a tale of what happens when obsession takes over the very soul of a being so powerful, that he can take what he desires without suffering any consequences.

* * *

 **Captivity**

He drags her, kicking and screaming, arms flailing—he doesn't bother restraining her, he knows she can't cause him any physical damage. He takes her to the highest tower of his cold, cold castle and places her in a room he's specifically designed for her. It's empty, save for a small bed. There are no windows—only a small door, so small that she has to bend in order to walk through it—that leads to a basic bathroom. There are no doors that lead out of the room—and none that lead in.

Half throwing her on the bed, he laughs coldly as she scrambles back—her jade eyes wild with fear and anger. Emotions that make him hot and hard…but he has enough control not to act on his desires. _Not yet._

"Why are you doing this?" Her voice is weak as she's screamed herself hoarse. She clings onto the blazing anger in her heart—afraid that she'll break down otherwise.

He walks a considerable distance away from her, ethereal eyes intent on hers—lips twisting as he sees her relax just a little, knowing that he isn't going to force himself on her.

"Why?" she asks again—this time, her voice is but a whisper. Her jade eyes wide, beseeching— _confused_.

A slow, cruel smile. "Because I love you, my champion." The words have a mocking edge—the look in his dual gaze is drastically bitter.

She gapes—she realizes he probably believes his own words… _but_ …but they couldn't be true. _Could they?_

"You don't…" she begins, unable to finish. You don't, what? Kidnap someone you love? "You don't mean that," she corrects herself. What she wants to say is— _you can't mean that_.

A raised brow. "Oh, but I _do_ , precious." His lilting voice resonates across the circular room, if one could call it a room. "I've decided to… _keep_ …you."

She shudders for a good few seconds before she rises from the bed—her eyes wild as ever. "Send me back you fucking psychopath!"

He doesn't smile—doesn't smirk—doesn't show one ounce of emotion in his impeccable gaze. Instead, he gives her a small bow and disappears from her view.

And so she stays—left alone with her thoughts—her fears—in a windowless circular torture cell of a room, in the highest tower of the Goblin King's frightening castle.

* * *

 **Primal Needs**

Time passes pathetically slowly the first week.

On the first day, she runs around the room, driving herself insane until she's exhausted. She tries looking for _something_ , however small, that she can use as a weapon…to no avail. She pounds on the walls until her hands are bruised and bloodied and she screams the same question over and over again.

"What do you want?"

Unfortunately, she receives no reply…or even an acknowledgement. When she finally succumbs to exhausted sleep, she feels terrified that he's going to leave her here to rot. It's only then that she realize she hasn't eaten all day—her stomach churns acid as she feels the pangs of hunger.

The second day, she notices that he's provided her with basic hygiene supplies in her miserable bathroom, including a toothbrush and toothpaste—the small bathtub remains empty, but she notices a bucket of water she can use to bathe herself. She can't help but feel a sick sense of gratitude—he could have left her to remain filthy… _he hadn't_. He'd even provided her with a change of clothes—including underwear.

Just as she wonders why he's being generous, she hears his amused chuckle from inside her room… _her_ _room_ …yeah right, more like her cell. She steps out of her bathroom to find him staring out of an open window that's appeared out of nowhere, letting bright sunlight into her dark torture cell.

"You clean up rather nicely, precious." He doesn't turn around—but his voice reverberates around the small space, eliciting a shiver.

She sees that he holds a bowl in one of his hands, and then she notices the smell of fresh food—her mouth salivates automatically and her stomach lurches, reminding her of the debilitating hunger she feels.

When he finally turns around, he feasts on the look in her eyes—so hungry. It's a look that burns him with lust. "You look _ravenous_ ," he says with dark amusement, holding out the bowl full of…he doesn't know what…he merely picked a bowl of rice and gravy dish his domestic staff eat every day. A basic meal in terms of both, flavor and nutrition.

Walking up to him until she's a few feet away, she freezes in place—the look of suspicion creeping into her blazing eyes. "Is it drugged like the peach?"

He only raises a brow in response, refusing to say a word.

"How can I…" her voice drifts away when she realizes how silly she sounds. _How can she trust him_? She can't. Still—she stands in defiance, contemplating how she can retaliate.

With a deep sigh, he vanishes the bowl of food and hands her a glass of water instead. "That was very, _very_ foolish, precious thing," he admonishes with his crooning voice. "Defiance for defiance's sake will prove futile." Saying that he disappears from the cell, as does the window.

Unable to resist her thirst, she gulps down the glass of water immediately as he vanishes. She cries out in dismay as she notices that the window has disappeared—he's punishing her, isn't he? He's rewarding her for 'good' behavior while taking away positive rewards for 'bad' behavior. The thought fills her with unmitigated rage. How dare he treat her like one of Pavlov's dogs?

She breaks down as the anger subsides—somewhere in the back of her mind she knows he can treat her however he damn well pleases.

On the third day, she wakes up to find a glass of water on the floor, next to her bed—she gulps it down without a second thought. She notices there are more supplies in the bathroom—the bathtub is full of steaming water. After a two nights of sleeping on a mattress that feels like it is made of concrete, she relishes the chance to soothe her aching muscles—and so she takes a luxurious bath.

She finds a beautiful but rather uncomfortable gown laid out, which she wears grudgingly. The alternative would be stale clothes from the day before, and cleanliness is something that she's always prized. She grits her teeth—the bastard probably knows it. She notices some cosmetics and a hairbrush, as well as a small mirror by the wash basin. She refuses to touch any of those—he may be able to force her into wearing what he pleases, but she sure as hell isn't going to put on any makeup or brush her hair.

Stepping out of the bathroom, she notices that the window has reappeared—the sunlight fills her with a sense of calm happiness—a primal human response to light, especially after days of deprivation. She walks up to the window like a moth drawn to a flame and looks at the view. It's nothing short of majestic—she realizes he's probably kept her somewhere very high up as there are low hanging clouds.

"Are you hungry _today_ , precious?"

She jumps at the sound of his lilting voice…but the bowl of food he holds elicits a far more visceral response than the day before. She clutches her stomach trying to keep the searing pain of hunger at bay.

"Go fuck yourself." Her words are acerbic but her voice is weak.

A slow laugh. "My defiant creature, you do realize that I will leave you alone and hungry." His tone isn't the slightest bit threatening, but it holds dark promise. His eyes glitter with conviction. "Or perhaps I should take away your bathroom—how long would you fare without access to plumbing facilities _Sa-rah_? Are you barbaric enough to relieve yourself in your own living quarters?"

The sheer thought of the act makes her cringe with disgust. "I'm sorry," the words are out before she can control herself. The image of herself having to use a spot in her pathetic cell as a bathroom makes her stomach heave. As a human used to modern plumbing, she simply can't bring herself to do that—and she has no doubt he'd make her. _And_ she has a feeling that he'd enjoy the humiliation.

"I'm sorry," she repeats, looking into his eyes—pleading him for mercy. "Please don't do that."

He flashes her a set of vicious teeth—his version of a smile. "Allow me to restart our conversation—are you hungry?" He holds out the bowl of rice and gravy, a satisfied smirk on his face as she nods her head. "Speak."

"Yes."

He gives her the bowl, amused when she scarfs down its contents within a few minutes. "I shall see you tomorrow, my darling." The window disappears as he says this, as if it was never there—replaced by a wall of stone. He turns around and walks a few steps, knowing full well what's going to happen next.

"Wait!" She exclaims, hurriedly closing the distance between them and holding his wrist. "Please don't take away the window…" her voice sounds pathetic to her own ears, but she continues, "…I'm afraid I'll go insane."

Richly amused laughter reverberates around the now windowless room—he doesn't turn around when he addresses her. "Have you ever heard the term quid pro quo, my darling?"

Quid pro quo? She knows the term and what it means—something for something.

Her face turns red—she knows _exactly_ what he's insinuating. Has he reduced her to this in only three days?

Turning around, he fixes her with an icy stare. "I didn't think so."

The fourth day comes and goes—she gets a bucket full of water for a bath and two bowls of bland gravy and rice for food, along with four glasses of water. That's it. The pattern continues for the next three days. She's fed enough that she doesn't feel hunger… _yet_ …the food doesn't satisfy her senses. It's too bland and tasteless, and too little to make her feel full. The water's enough so that she doesn't feel uncomfortably thirsty… _yet_ …her throat is constantly dry.

* * *

 **Demon Lover**

On the eighth day, she sees that the bathtub is full and that there's an intricate gown laid out for her, along with some cosmetic products, jewelry, and a hairbrush. Clenching her teeth after she dresses herself, she gingerly runs her finger tips through the rest of the items—she knows they're unspoken commands. She feels her face become unbearably hot as she puts on the makeup and jewelry he's laid out—she tugs her hair painfully as she brushes it—letting it fall loose on her back. She stifles the urge to laugh as she looks at her reflection in the mirror—she may as well be a bejeweled princess and not a prisoner.

She's not surprised to find him standing in by the window—which seems to be conjured up only when he's in the vicinity. He watches her bend down and enter the cell from the bathroom—he seems a bit more tense than usual, the thought makes her happy yet anxious.

"Hello…" she begins, desperate enough that she's willing to play polite. "I'm glad to see you here…" she drifts off, wondering how she should address him. _Jareth…? Your Majesty…?_

He laughs his maddeningly slow, lilting laugh—his cruel eyes are alight with genuine amusement. "Oh, precious, you'll never be able to hide the hatred in your eyes. No matter how _civilized_ you may sound, I know there's a vicious, feral creature waiting to strike me. There's no need for the pretense, my darling. I much prefer you… _untamed_."

She can't help but snarl at that—"Then why are you doing this, you sick, twisted—" She stops speaking at the look in his eyes, recoiling in fear.

His gaze hardens and he bares his teeth—the black cloak he wears seems to swirl around him, as if it's made of smoke. His eyes glitter with satisfaction as he takes in the terror in her eyes. "I've already told you why, mortal child—I love you."

"This isn't how you treat someone you love," she says, her voice shaking as she shivers. She hates herself for it, but she can't help but notice how… _perfect_ …he looks. Everything about him, from the lines on his cold face, to his ethereal eyes, to the column of his throat is achingly beautiful.

" _No_?" he mocks—his tone tinged with amusement and self-loathing. "I'm not in love with you in the mortal sense of the word, my darling…" a bitter laugh. "I love you, the only way I know how."

 _The only way I know how…_

"Don't do this…please, I'll…" she doesn't know what to say to placate him. That she'll return his sentiments should he release her? He'd laugh in her face.

An enquiring glance. "You'll _what_ , precious?"

"I…I…" she stammers as his gaze turns scorching hot—her skin sizzles and her breathing becomes laborious. "I'll date you if you let me go." Oh lord, of all the stupid things to say—she winces—lunatics who kidnap women don't _date_. She's watched enough CSI to know this.

"Would you, my darling?" he asks, his voice light with humor. "I'd much rather keep you here, all the same."

Turning away in embarrassment, she blurts out the next question before she can stop herself. "Will you rape me?"

The question elicits a harsh sigh. "During this… _pleasant stay_ …of yours in my humble castle, have I forced anything on you?"

 _Pleasant stay? Ha—what a joke._

She forces herself to speak when he gives her a pointed look, "No." Of course, the next question on her mind is 'why not?' Isn't that what obsessed crazies do? "What do you want from me?" she asks instead.

His pale eyes burn with icy fire for a few silent moments—his dilated pupil turns a shade darker as if he's contemplating exactly what he wants. "I wish to own you, my darling. Possess you, consume you. I wish to take you while you scream my name. I wish to see your cruel, beautiful eyes burn with hatred and passion." He smiles as he sees her shrink—it's not just fear for her safety that scares her, it's also desire—her desire for him. He realizes that she feels a certain pull towards him—a certain allure that she can't explain—she feels a sense of attraction, a sense of curiosity. "Perhaps I should return tomorrow…"

The veiled threat does its trick. She reaches him in three long strides, both her hands grasping a lean arm. "Please don't take the window away…don't leave me alone like the last time." Those three days had been excruciating—she hadn't known if he'd ever return—or whether he'd be content to let her live out the rest of her life eating gruel and taking bucket baths.

Like most humans, she's a social animal—isolation serves as a torture technique that's as severe as it is effective. She knows she's not a heroine in a Hollywood action movie—she isn't going to remain defiant while overcoming all odds and beating a magical creature far stronger than she'll ever be. She's not going to be the hero who miraculously dodges all bullets while striking the villain with precision enough to wound or to kill. Or the romance novel heroine who gets the villainous-but-not-really-villainous King to fall in love with her in a normal manner that's not psychotic.

 _So where does that leave her_? She knows the answer to that—and it makes her stomach sink. The primary resource she needs is time. She needs to earn his trust while she searches for a weapon…or an escape.

He flashes her a chilling smile, as if he knows exactly what's going on in her head. "Quid pro quo, my darling."

Looking into his unnerving eyes, she gives him a barely perceptible nod.

His smile grows wider. That look in her eyes—the mixture of confusion, hatred, revulsion, and desire— _that_ look makes his cock hard, and his blood run hot. Slipping an arm around her waist, he transports them to another chamber deep within his castle. A much nicer one.

She looks around, assessing her surroundings—they're in a room that's far plushier than the last—though that's not saying much. The bed is bigger, the mattress softer. Heavy woolen rugs cover the cold, hard floors—a fire place gives the room a warm glow. There is a significantly large window at the far wall, but it is shuttered.

"Now what?" she asks—her eyes following his every move.

Sauntering towards the bed, he sits down, and leans back on his elbows—his dark clothes a perfect contrast to the pristine, cream colored coverlet. He throws her a look that's almost bored. "That's entirely up to you, Sarah."

Her ears perk up when she hears him use her real name. She knows what the bastard wants—he wants her to come to him—for her to make the first move. Everything's part of the game he's playing—he wants to prove that…she frowns when she realizes the significance of what he wants to prove. He wants to prove that he _has_ power over her. Lots of it.

 _Well_ …her conscience laughs… _doesn't he_? Her breathing turns erratic and her hands shake as she reaches for the hooks to her dress.

"Stop."

Raising her head, she looks at him—a question in her eyes. This isn't what he wants…?

He laughs a full throated laugh. "My darling, you look like a lamb at the altar—except, you're not very appetizing." The lines on his face realign, his eyes turn cold as he uncrosses his legs. "I don't prefer my women meek and frightened, Sarah. I suggest you overcome your many…trepidations."

And just like that, her temper flares. "I'm doing what you want, you bastard—I don't have to like it."

Sitting up in one fluid motion, he smirks as she takes a little step back. "That sounds like a challenge, precious thing—I accept." He runs his eyes through her form, his gaze hot enough to burn. "Take off your dress and jewelry."

She does—violent shivers running down her spine. She stands before him in sheer, nude colored panties and bra. Her nipples instantly harden as they're exposed to the cold—they scrape against the slightly rough, net-like fabric of her bra. The teasing sensation sends a jolt of arousal between her legs. She stands there—a deer caught in the headlights—unable to look away from her captor's unnerving gaze.

"You say that you're doing what _I_ want, precious thing," he lilts, every word dripping with condescension… he puts a gloved finger to his lips. "However, I haven't exactly told you what I want— _have I_? Perhaps this will make it easy for you—poor, precious heroine trapped with an evil King, forced to carry out his sadistic demands…"

The words create an ominous environment—she shivers with anticipation.

A slow laugh. "What would you do if I told you to crawl to me on your hands and knees, and suck my cock with your pretty little mouth?"

She gapes at his crude words—her blood running hot with an amalgamation of lust, shock, and humiliation—the combination makes her heady. Her face is flushed and breathing heavy. "I…" she coughs, trying to regain her voice, "…I'd tell you to fuck off."

He grins at that— _sharply_. "I see you've regained some of your fire," his eyes twinkle as he speaks—as if he finds the entire situation hilarious. "Come to me."

Surprising herself, she does as he asks—he gestures for her to stand between his knees. She can feel him—his magic, his heat, his strength—a buzzing sensation tickles her skin. "What's happening?" her voice is brimmed with panic, yet there's a haze of lust that coats her words.

Cocking his head to the side as he studies her reactions, he speaks, "Your response to me, precious. You're human, and as such, let us say, you find me _irresistible_. I don't have to issue any commands, you'll have me of your own accord." His tone doesn't carry a hint of smugness—he's only being matter-of-fact.

She gasps as he lifts her up—pulls them both on the bed—situating her so that her knees are on either side of his hips as she straddles him. She has to control herself not to let out a moan as her wet heat brushes past his cock—he's already hard and ready. The telltale pulse of desire between her legs starts throbbing painfully.

"You're controlling my mind," she says through gritted teeth. It takes tremendous self-control not to rub herself against him like a horny teenager. Or a dog in heat.

Rich, vibrant laughter. "No, my dear—it's a human response to being close to one of my kind. As I said, it's completely natural—I'm surprised you've held out for so long." He leans back on his elbows again, eyes studying her moves, lips twisting into a terrifying smile. "Sit up and spread your knees."

She does as he asks—beads of sweat forming on her forehead, her lower back. Her muscles feel tight and painful as they're stretched out like this.

"I see you're fighting your desires—a valiant effort." His gloved fingers trace patters on her hipbones—her panties disappear, leaving her bare before him. "I thought humans had hair here," his leather clad fingers absently brush her heated flesh as he says this.

She shrugs. "I've had 8 laser sessions—I only get some soft, downy hair that I shave once every—oh" her voice dies out as he caresses her throbbing clit. Oh God, how she wants to grind against him.

He raises a brow, his own gaze reflecting the naked lust prevalent in hers. "Did you want me to issue a command, precious thing—so that you don't have to own up to your desires?" He keeps caressing her clit in slow strokes, keeping her aroused. "Very well…touch yourself."

Her hands move automatically—with one hand she opens up her outer lips, and with the other, she presses against her entrance before inserting two fingers. Her head falls back and her eyes shut.

"Look at me, precious thing," his voice comes out harsher. " _Always_ , look at me." With his hands, he holds her knees in place so that her legs remain open.

Snapping her head back in place, she obeys him—rubbing circles around her clit. She starts out applying slight pressure—but before long, her fingers press against her clit in tight circles. Wet arousal seeps down her thigh and drips against the leather of his pants. Just as she teeters on the edge of orgasm, he pulls her hands away. She lets out a moan in protest, her breathing hard and frantic.

His unnerving eyes gleam with raw triumph. "I rescind my command, Sarah. If you wish to bring yourself to completion, it must be your own choice."

Blood creeps up her chest…her face, but she can't stop herself. She's too close. The feel of him below her is too much. She presses down on her clit with her thumb and pumps two fingers in and out of herself until she brings herself to a frenzied climax. Muffled sobs escape her throat as the aftershocks of her orgasm die down—a look of horror mingled with pleasure glazes her emerald gaze.

His breathing quickens as he sees her tremble in pleasure, her muscles tightening and releasing. "Good girl," he murmurs in praise—it is equal parts demeaning as it is flattering. Slowly raising his hands, he removes her barely existent bra—she sits naked before him, while he remains fully clothed.

A small tear flows down her face as she takes in her actions—she realize it isn't him. Not entirely anyway—she can't resist his pull. She's become the heroine in an idiotic 80s bodice ripper romance—a moron who suffers from traitorous body syndrome.

"Hush, my darling," the words are spoken with a gentleness that's uncharacteristic. After all, if there's anyone who understands self-loathing, it's him. Lifting her up, he places her in the middle of the bed, her back resting against his chest—his legs on either side of her—a gentle trap. Vanishing away his gloves, he strokes every inch of her skin until she becomes less tense.

She shudders as he places hot, open mouthed kisses on the back of her neck, her shoulders—his fingers caress her nipples until they're painfully hard. She can feel his erection through his pants—she moans, pressing herself to him.

He chuckles darkly. "In good time, Sarah—I intend to make this last very long." He turns her around, his lips trail down her chest—his mouth closes over a round breast, lips latching onto the pebbled tip.

Moaning hoarsely, she arches her back, pressing more of herself into his hungry mouth—his tongue, his lips—he'll be her undoing. She knows it. "Jareth," she whispers throatily, unable to tear her gaze away from his mouth.

His mouth moves to her other breast—this time, he isn't so gentle. He sucks her hardened nipple—hard enough that the dark red tip turns purple—his sharp teeth bite into the sensitive flesh of her breast. His hands caresses the arousal soaked skin of her upper thighs, inching ever so close to her hot center, until she lifts her hips in anticipation.

She yelps when she feels something cold slide into her.

"Relax, my darling—it's only a toy to keep you _entertained_ ," he responds, pulling the toy out—it's a phallic shaped device made of glass. He presses it against her entrance—eyes intent on hers—as he pushes it in. "Lie back," he pushes her shoulders until she's lying back. "Bend your knees, feet apart…good girl…so obedient…" He takes her right hand and places it at the base of the toy.

She breathes hard, knowing what he wants. Still—she can't bring herself to do it. She's not his…what _is_ she to him anyway?

He breaks out into a full-fledged grin when he sees the fury and abhorrence in her eyes—how it turns him on. He knows how to dissolve her reluctance. "I want to suck your clit so hard, Sarah," he says, voice raw and gravelly. "I want you to come against my face as you fuck yourself with the toy…don't you, Sarah?" His tongue darts out for a taste of her pulsing bud, his eyes are intense enough to bore holes into her skull.

She looks at him—breaths coming out in animalistic pants—mouth open.

"I don't just require your consent, precious—I require active participation. Fuck yourself with the toy and I'll suckle your clit—I'll make it slow, so that when the pleasure hits, you'll feel spent. But I won't make it easy, my darling. _Oh, no_ —I'll toss the toy aside and feast on you—I'll tease you while I drink from you. I'll place you at the edge. I'll have you at my mercy so that you'll do anything I desire—I'll have you beg me to fuck you as I flip you over and take you from the back."

 _Holy…fuck._

Her breathing stops for a few seconds as she visualizes every dirty thing he says he'll do to her. Her clit throbs in response—her cunt walls clench against the glass toy. Before she knows it, her fingers grasp the hilt and she moves the toy in and out of herself.

He doesn't look triumphant anymore—he looks downright victorious—a King who's won a war. His unnerving eyes burn with an unknown emotion as he lowers his face into her cunt—taking in her scent before pleasuring her. He does as he promised—his tongue moves in excruciatingly slow strokes against the pulsing flesh of her clit. He drags out her pleasure with every caresses, his hands massage the flesh on her breasts, keeping her nipples hard.

She's lost in her own pleasure—her throat rendered raw by her moans and sobs. Just as he'd said, he sucks on her clit with enough pressure to make her hover on the edge of release—but not enough to grant it. Her hand moves frantically—pumping the toy in and out of herself—it's adequately wide, but not long enough to touch the spot that makes her come.

He looks at her for a few moments—her eyes blazing with wanton lust, her flesh soaked in sweat and arousal, her dark hair spread across the sheets. How he's _longed_ to have her like this—completely at his mercy. Rumbling out a cold laugh when she whimpers in protest, he suckles her clitoris with more pressure—a finger trails across the sensitive skin of her inner lips—lower still.

She gasps as she feels his finger scrape against… _he wouldn't_!

"Stop!" she says, panic setting. "I've never…"

Looking up at her with a slow, lazy grin, he vanishes the glass toy before running his tongue from her clit to her entrance. He scrapes his finger against the dark star of her anus, delighted when she lets out a sharp, startled sound.

"Thirty mortal years and you've _never_ , Sarah?" his tone is lightly mocking. "We'll have to fix that, won't we?"

She all but screams when he enters her with her tongue in shallow thrusts, his fingers still massaging her… _back_ _there_. And then he moves, spreading her wider, holding her buttocks apart. What is he…? He wouldn't do that…he wouldn't be that _filthy_ — _would he_? The feel of his hot, wet tongue against her anal opening is answer enough. He licks her there until she feels like she's going to come—and then he moves back to her clit.

She can't look at him any longer—her head is thrown back, her eyes shuttered. She's never felt anything this intense—this dirty—nothing that's ever made her feel like she's a woman possessed with raw sex. Someone who's out of control. She complies when he maneuvers her so that she's on her elbows and knees, hips raised at just the right angle.

He's no longer the collected, impassive King with a face carved out of marble—he's waited too long to have her, and here she is—begging him with her body. He vanishes his clothes—one hand grasps her hair, and the other fondles her breast as he pushes himself inside her, inch by inch until she takes all of him in.

She cries out in pleasure and pain as he roughly pulls her hair, his lips laying kisses along the back of her neck—she feels as if she's dissociated from her own body as he enters her. It's a surreal experience—she sees herself as an outsider who writhes against him. She's not the one who's slamming her hips against her captor—she's not the one begging him not to stop—she's not the one who comes so violently that she almost collapses in shock. She's not that woman. She _can't_ be.

In the boneless aftermath of pleasure, he raises his head and looks at the sleeping mortal with a gaze that's almost tender. _Your fate is sealed, precious one_.

* * *

 **Black Wedding**

The woman who sits at the table is dressed in a sheer black dress—crystal beads arranged strategically on her dress so that it doesn't cross the line between sexy and obscene. He'd laughed at her—he'd said only _she_ would be so dramatic as to wear black to her own wedding. On her head sits a crown of stars—much like his, but smaller.

She'd tried escaping a grand total of three times—none of her escape methods had worked. Having centuries on her, he's able to read her face—her emotions—every dark thought—quite easily. He'd predicted all of her escape attempts, and he'd laughed heartily as she'd screamed in frustration. Then, of course, he'd have her screaming in another manner altogether.

She'd tried murdering him once. She'd stabbed him in the chest—deep enough that she'd cut through his heart, but he'd only sat up calmly and pulled out the offending blade.

"Many others have tried, my darling—you'll have to wait a century or two before you harness the skills to be an actual threat towards me." With that, he'd healed himself in an instant and he'd…her face turns red…he'd pleasured her most ruthlessly. While his council watched. She hasn't tried killing him since.

"My morose Queen," he teases as he sits—at the head of the table as always—eyeing her plateful of food. "If you don't feed yourself, I shall have to take your seat away, my darling. I'll have a servant put a cushion on the floor and have our guests pat you on the head like a good pet." He grins as he gets the reaction he wants—she glares at him with emerald fire.

"I fucking hate you, Jareth—I will succeed in killing you one day." She stabs at her food, but she eats—she knows he'll make good on his threat if she doesn't.

He bows in mock concession—the deep timbre of his voice resonates against her ears as he speaks. "Till then, my darling," he says—raising a goblet of wine in her honor.

* * *

This was a writing experiment. [ETA - lemme know your thoughts - via PM or perhaps you can saunter over to Ao3 - where the review structure is better. I'm thinking of updating Dark Court and Antithesis only on that platform as ffnet has annoyed the crap out of me lately].

Here we have it—he kidnaps her, messes with her, marries her (makes her Queen and all)—and keeps her. Supposedly, he loves her. Is he justified? Possibly the darkest Jareth I've written.

I love reading/writing a good dark Jareth fic. I feel like I never cross a certain line while writing Dark Jareth—so wanted to try it this time. HOWEVER, in my mind, there's a massive difference between Dark Jareth (the kind I like) versus Disgusting Jareth.

Disgusting Jareth is physically abusive (I don't mean consensually kinky but slap and punch happy), insecure (demands grandiose displays of respect), redneck-ish, illiterate, dirty—hygienically speaking—basically, in my mind, he's someone who lives in a trailer park and drinks Budweiser and Jack Daniel's all day and beats his wife all night. And he probably showers once a week.

Fics that focus on 'kidnap her and rape her until she loves me or learns to shut up' generally have this type of Jareth. And I've always been stumped—a really powerful being would _never_ demand repeated reassurances of respect—he (or she) _already knows_ he's the most powerful being going—doesn't need external validation. [Like people who're incredibly wealthy don't need to flaunt wealth, the ones who're one tier below do]. It's like authors have taken the disenfranchised, unhappy, illiterate men they know in their own lives and superimposed them onto Jareth. And I'm all—girrrrrrrrrl, don't turn the GK into trailer trash. [ETA - I know trailer trash is a horrible term, couldn't think how else to say it - what I'm thinking of is a poor, angry, man with inadequate education and no real skills who's pissed at the world and supports Donald Trump - basically, one of the least attractive people on earth].

Oh, I forgot to mention: stupid… _so_ stupid…if he were human, he wouldn't pass 8th grade algebra— _that_ level of stupid. Jareth's MO is to kidnap Sarah and hit her until she stops defying him? What a moronic strategy. He makes Vodafone (AT&T, Telus equivalent) telemarketers look like Machiavellian geniuses. Seriously, there are people who find this type of Jareth dark and seductive and I'm just like….oh honey, get some standards. If not in terms of behavior and IQ, then at least in terms of personal hygiene. Give him a loofah.

Moving onto Sarah—in one version, she's super 'defiant' (read, incredibly stupid, counterproductively combative, terrible problem solver—all she does is scream and argue). Military prisoners of war, who're trained to kill with their hands, succumb to isolation/starvation/lack of sleep—but the irritating, defiant heroine somehow manages to withstand everything Disgusting Jareth throws at her—simply not possible. In another version, she's the usual awkward, unattractive virgin who's sooooooooooooo surprised the trailer-park version of the GK finds her to be the source of all his desires. That version is even _more_ unrealistic.

I've been told once (directly, and once indirectly) that I'm not 'opening' my mind/ pushing my boundaries/ some other BS, and my response to that was…BAHAHAHAHA. I mean, come on. I LOVE dark, filthy, disturbing, and twisted. I ADORE psychological mind fucks and evil male love interests. I find certain instances of blurred consent situations INCREDIBLY hot (have you read what I write?). But illiterate redneck 'drunk on Budweiser' Jareth? Dear God, EWWWWW.

Anyways—here you go—I opened my mind and wrote this as an experiment. This hopefully demos that you can write evil J without making him a gross, rapey redneck.

Apparently real J is from Venice (better than gross, rapey redneck I guess but nooooooooooooo, ugh, why?). I have issues. Will probably write a Tumblr post sometime this weekend.


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